Maximum Security (A Dog Park Mystery)

by C. A. Newsome

  Kitty froze as she watched the end of the casket slowly tilt down into the grave.

  Oblivious, Stacy continued to run and shout, now only yards away.

  As the unlocked and out-of-sync gears slipped faster, the casket picked up speed and tumbled into the grave. It echoed as it banged against the side of the vault, then crashed into the bottom with the sound of splintering wood.

  Jim, Bailey and Jose ran to the graveside as the Dollar Hut women helped their two friends back up.

  “Please, I really want to talk to you,” Stacy panted as she drew up to Kitty and Lia on the side of the hill. Her waist-length hair was coming loose from the velvet headband that had restrained it. The headband itself was slipping forward onto her forehead. She came to a halt and took a moment to push the strip of velvet back on top of her head.

  Monica erupted. Stacy turned at the sound of her mother’s incomprehensible tirade and the three of them watched the chaos on top of the hill.

  “Did I do that?” Stacy asked in a small voice.

  Lia made a wry expression. “I think you did.”

  Stacy lowered her head. “I didn’t mean to.”

  “We’re not the one you should be telling that to,” Kitty said gently.

  Monica continued to yell incoherently as horrified mourners gathered to stare down into the open grave.

  “Yeah, well I’m not going to try apologizing right now. You’re George’s girlfriend,” she said to Kitty.

  “Yes, Stacy, I was. I’m so sorry about your loss.”

  “I’m sorry about yours, too. How do you know my name?”

  “You stepfather showed me many pictures of you. He loved you very much. How did you recognize me?”

  “I saw you, outside the store once. And the police showed us your picture.” Lia winced. This hadn’t occurred to her.

  Monica screamed, “Get that out of there! Get it out! Get it out!”

  Stacy held out her hand and Kitty took it, trapped by the need to share a moment with this girl who loved George. Stacy continued, “I could tell he cared about you. You know, he wasn’t happy for a long time until you came along. I love my mother, but she was really hard on George. She tries to act like she’s so nice to everyone, but she wasn’t, not to him.” She glanced back up the hill and rolled her eyes at her mother’s hysterical outpouring.

  ~

  A burly man was carefully lowering himself into the grave while a funeral home employee threw his arms in the air, objecting. Lia looked over at the oak tree. Peter and Brent remained where they were and watched impassively as the pandemonium played out. She noticed Brent holding his phone unobtrusively in his folded arms and imagined he was taking pictures.

  “Try not to judge your mother,” Kitty said. “Marriage can be very . . . difficult.”

  “She should have been nicer to him. I bet you’re a really nice lady.”

  Lia saw the barrel-chested man steam down the hill, carrying a small cluster of crushed red roses, slinging them back and forth as he pumped his arms. He came up behind Stacy.

  “Stacy,” he ground out, making her jump as he placed a hand on her shoulder. “You need to go back to your mother. Now!”

  Kitty stared at the odd bundle of roses as if it were dangerous. She edged back.

  A mulish look crossed Stacy’s face, then passed. “Whatever.” She turned to leave and took a few steps up the hill, then turned back toward Kitty. “I’m glad I met you.”

  “Me, too,” Kitty said, dragging up a hint of a smile.

  The bull-like man glared at Kitty and shoved the mashed heart of roses into her stomach. “I’m sure you’d like these back.”

  Kitty clutched the roses as tears rolled down her face.

  “You have some nerve, bribing the mortician into sticking your–” here he curled his lip. “–tribute into George’s coffin. You humiliated Monica by showing your face and disrupting George’s funeral. How dare you intrude on my family like this?”

  “I only wanted to say good-bye to George,” Kate blubbered into the roses.

  “Haven’t you done enough?” He demanded.

  “Apparently she hasn’t,” Lia said, stepping forward to divert the man’s attention. “You seem to think you need to add another ring to this circus. We were leaving. All you’re doing is keeping us here. Stacy is the one who made a scene. Why don’t you go talk to her about it?”

  The man’s face turned scarlet as he inflated with fury. “You leave Stacy out of this. Who are you, anyway?”

  Rage is apparently a family trait. “And you are?” Lia tossed back.

  “I’m Stacy’s uncle. Unlike you, I belong here.” He looked at Kate, opening his mouth as a prelude to more abuse.

  “Problem?” Peter stood behind Monica’s brother. His tone was mild, but firm. “I believe these ladies were just leaving. That’s all right with you, isn’t it?”

  Monica’s brother slitted his eyes and jutted his jaw. He turned to face Peter, who was several inches taller as well as standing higher on the slope.

  “We don’t need any trouble here, do we?” Peter asked. “I’m sure your family needs you right now.”

  Monica’s brother jabbed an angry finger at Peter. “Just get them out of here.” He stormed up the rise.

  “My hero,” Lia said, limply.

  “Am I allowed to say, ‘I told you so’?”

  “I didn’t mean for this to happen,” Kitty whispered.

  “Go,” Peter said. “Please?”

  ~ ~ ~

  Peter shook his head as he watched Lia and Kate walk the rest of the way down the hill to the car. Monica’s voice still shrilled from the hill top. He hoped Brent kept his eyes open during the chaos. It would be interesting to know what he noticed during Stacy’s Rube Goldberg production.

  Peter walked back up the hill against the tide of people now leaving the gravesite. Monica railed at the funeral director while his employees handed up fragments of the coffin. A seemingly chastened Stacy stood at Monica’s side. Peter caught her looking sideways out of her lowered eyes. A smirk flashed across her face and vanished.

  The dog park regulars were gone. Some of the Dollar Hut employees remained, probably so they wouldn’t have to go back to work yet. They fussed with the garish pink cross, trying to repair the squashed and mangled blossoms.

  Brent was an oasis of rationality leaning against the oak tree.

  “What did I miss?” Peter asked.

  “I got some lovely pictures of Monica before she regained her composure. Now that Mount Saint Monica has nearly blown herself out, she is doing an excellent job of pretending both Stacy and the offending coffin don’t exist.

  “Jacob,” he gestured with his chin toward the young man standing apart from the family, “tried to help with the coffin but was rebuffed. He is now acting twitchy like there’s something he wants to do but knows he can’t. Either that, or his tie is too tight. He keeps looking over at our widow.

  “Bubba seems to think he’s in charge, and it’s pissing off the worker bees. Bubba’s wife knows that whoever’s in charge, it’s not her.

  “The Dollar Hut crowd has been striving mightily to maintain their dignity since the coffin decided to interrupt the proceedings. I caught Shondra snickering. There were knowing looks between Monica’s coworkers. I strongly suspect they find Monica’s lack of control ironic for a school counselor. Amazingly, no one looked shocked by her performance.

  “The widow has excellent lungs and should consider changing careers to town-crier or pearl diver. Stacy keeps sneaking looks over here. Shame her little mishap aborted the party. We could see how long she keeps it up. Do you suppose it’s my natural good looks and charm?”

  “I think it’s the great, big badge in your pocket,” Peter said.

  “I can only imagine what the mood will be at Chez Munce after this. Oh, to be a fly in the punch bowl.”

  They waited until, with a final look of longing, Jacob turned to go. Peter and Brent moved casually as they interc
epted the boy, flanking him while looking as if they were just joining him for the trip down the slope.

  “Jacob Cox?” Peter asked.

  “Who wants to know?” Jacob’s attempt at surliness came out petulant. Peter was certain the boy knew exactly who they were.

  “Cincinnati Police,” Brent obliged. “I’m Detective Davis and my partner is Detective Dourson. We understand you’re a neighbor of the Munces. Family friend?”

  Jacob gave a very adolescent shrug. “Mrs. Munce’s my counselor at school. I do some yard-work for them. You shouldn't be talking to me without my parents.”

  Peter picked up here in their choreographed effort to keep Jacob off balance. “I believe your driver’s license says you’re eighteen. That is what it says, isn’t it, Detective Davis?”

  “I do believe you’re right, Detective Dourson. I also believe the rulebook says we don’t need your parents, young Jacob.”

  Jacob shrugged again. “Worth a try.” He stopped by an ancient but well-kept Camry. “What do you want?”

  “Your parents know you’re here?” Brent asked.

  “Yeah. What’s the big deal?”

  “We have a few questions for you. You can follow us to the station, or we can drive you there and have an officer bring you back when we’re done,” Peter said.

  “I can’t right now. I gotta get back to school.”

  “We’ll give you a note,” Brent said.

  ~

  Jacob elected to follow them to the station. Peter and Brent met him in the parking lot and escorted him through the tiny lobby at District Five to an interview room in the secured area in back. By mutual agreement, Peter and Brent remained silent until they entered the room, in order to unnerve Jacob.

  “Have a seat,” Peter said. He signaled to Brent, who left the room.

  Jacob slumped into the plastic and chrome chair. Peter stood.

  “What’s this about?” Jacob’s protest contained false notes. The nerves were real, but Peter suspected Cox had a very good idea what it was about. Still, you had to play the game.

  Brent entered, carrying a large zip-lock bag and a file folder. He laid the bag on the table. It contained an inexpensive cell phone.

  “Recognize this?” Peter asked.

  Jacob blinked rapidly. “It’s a phone.” He shrugged.

  “Look closer,” Peter said.

  “What’s the big deal? It’s just a phone.” The wide-eyed look was now accompanied by an edge of whine.

  “Not just any phone, young Jacob,” Brent said.

  Peter leaned across the table, hovering over Jacob. “This,” he jabbed his index finger at the phone, “belonged to George Munce. Nobody knew he had this phone except one person.”

  “Until he died, anyway,” Brent added. He pulled the E-FIT out of the file folder and placed it on the table next to the phone.

  “This person,” Peter’s index finger now incriminated the E-FIT, “was seen selling this phone.”

  “So what, he looks like me. I’ve got nothing to do with this.” The whine was now honed to a hair-splitting edge.

  “Cut the crap, Cox,” Brent said. “If we have to, we’ll put you in a lineup and get a positive ID from our several witnesses. We just thought we’d give you a chance to come clean without the parade.”

  “What are we looking at, Detective Davis?”

  “Let’s see. On the low end, receiving stolen property. Could be theft. Then we’ve got impeding an investigation, interfering with a corpse and the top of the line includes your various murder charges.”

  “Why don’t you make it easy on yourself and tell us about the phone,” Peter suggested.

  “Look,” Jacob exploded, “I just found it, okay? I thought I could make a couple bucks. I didn’t do anything to anyone!”

  Peter stood up, folded his arms. “Convince us.”

  Jacob stared at the table. More blinking. “I was hanging out at Harvest Home Park–”

  “When were you there?” Brent interrupted, keeping Jacob off balance.

  “Uh –” More blinking.

  “It’s not a hard question, Cox,” Peter said.

  Brent went to a sideboard in the room, poured a glass of water out of the pitcher sitting there.

  “It was after school–”

  “What day was this?” Peter asked.

  “Tuesday,” Jacob blurted. “It was Tuesday.”

  “Which Tuesday?” Peter asked.

  “Last week . . . no, wait, a couple weeks ago.”

  “What were you doing there?” Peter asked.

  “I was just hanging, all right?”

  Brent returned with a cup of water. “Here.” He set it down in front of Jacob. You look like you could use a drink.”

  “Who were you hanging with?”

  Jacob looked down, his eyes tracking his hand as he picked up the cup and took a drink. More blinks.

  “Nobody. Just me.”

  “Anyone see you hanging with yourself?”

  “I dunno. I don’t remember.”

  “Where in the park were you?”

  “On the bleachers, by the ball diamonds.”

  “How’d you find the phone?”

  “I was just walking and it was in the grass.” He took another drink, his eyes again on his hand.

  “Where in the grass?”

  Blink, blink, blink. “By the playground, near my car.”

  “So you just suddenly decided, ‘no need to be a solid citizen and return it, I’ll just sell it and make a few bucks’?”

  “Uh, yeah. Like that.”

  They continued to badger Jacob while he told his story. The frequent interruptions kept him off-center and prevented him from having time to think. Eventually he finished, with an account of selling the phone to a man who fit Bill Stryker’s description, at the time and date reported by Stryker.

  “This is my problem, Jacob.” Peter leaned over the table again. “You live four houses down from Munce, but you just so happen to find his phone in a place he is not known to frequent, the day he goes missing. Instead of attempting to return the phone to your neighbor, you wipe the memory and sell it. When Munce goes missing, you don’t consider it important enough to tell anyone. And when it turns out your neighbor is not missing, but ripped to shreds by a pack of coyotes, you’re too busy covering your sorry ass to let anyone know about it.”

  Jacob jumped up and shouted, “How was I supposed to know it was his phone? It’s a prepaid!” He blinked furiously as he sat back down and folded his arms mutinously across his chest.

  “Depending on when, exactly, you ‘found’ that phone,” Brent drawled, “it either rang your ear off or else it had an exceptional number of new voice and text messages on it. Are you telling us you just ignored that?”

  Brent’s Atlanta accent tended to come out during interrogations. It was now so thick, Peter could smell magnolias. “. . .

  “I want a lawyer.”

  Peter waved him off. “We’re done with you. For now.”

  They escorted the red faced adolescent back to the lobby. Brent scrawled a quick note on the back of a business card and handed it to Jacob. “For school,” he said. “They can call me if they need verification.”

  “Screw you, Asshole,” Jacob said, tossing the card on the ground.

  Cynth walked into the building just in time to catch Jacob’s furious exit.

  “My, my. Making friends?”

  “I’m having better luck with him than I am with you,” Brent complained. “Why won’t you go out with me?”

  “Um, because you’re getting lucky with teen-age boys? I wonder if I should report you.”

  The desk sergeant snickered as Cynth flashed her ID at the card reader on the door, letting herself into the back. Brent spun to catch the door before it closed again. She was already down the hall, her long braid swinging behind her.

  Peter shook his head, tsking as he picked up the rejected business card. He put an arm around Brent’s shoulder. “Real me
n don’t beg.”

  “That must not have been a real man who was leaving plants at Lia’s studio door last year.”

  “That was not begging. That was wooing.”

  “Uh-huh. ‘Brent, she’s not taking my calls,’” Brent mocked in falsetto. “‘Oh, Brent, what am I going to do?’” He started choking theatrically as Peter’s friendly arm slipped around his neck. Gamely, he rasped, “You were whipped from the word go.”

  Peter dropped his arm as the door swung open again. Brent straightened up as Captain Roller walked through, on his way to lunch with one of the lieutenants. He called over his shoulder, “My office. First thing tomorrow. I expect progress.”

  ~ ~ ~

  “Where are we going?” Brent asked. “Dinner is across the street.” Brent pointed to the small Chinese restaurant across Ludlow Avenue.

  “Our food won’t be ready for another ten minutes. I want to take a quick look in here.”

  Peter turned the corner, stopping at a tiny storefront on Telford Avenue.

  “Oh, no,” Brent said. “Not again.”

  “It’ll only take a minute.”

  “We’re looking for a murderer. Have you forgotten? Tomorrow morning? Roller? Progress?”

  “Dust it off, Cupcake, you’ll survive.” A tinny bell jangled as he pushed open the door to the jewelry store, Brent on his heels. The interior was dim, the walls lined with glass-fronted, barrister bookcases set on top of matching oak cabinets. Each shelf was dedicated to a single semiprecious stone, containing loose stones, rings, necklaces, earrings and bracelets in a wide variety of ethnic and artistic settings.

  “This is more like it,” Peter said.

  “I’m so happy for you. Let’s go”

  “Do I bitch when you waste time flirting with Cynth down in IT?”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “That’s lovely, isn’t it?” a smoky voice said.

  Peter looked up from the coral and turquoise Native American cuff he was examining to see a familiar face surrounded by spikes of copper and lime green. “Desiree, isn’t it? You’re a ways from the Comet. New job?” Peter could feel Brent salivating next to him. He unobtrusively stepped on Brent’s foot and applied a gentle pressure. Brent cleared his throat and stepped sideways.